


A Dream Without Rain

by Sandoz (Sandoz_Iscariot17)



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Bathroom Sex, Dreams, Hotel Sex, Hotels, M/M, Rain, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-18
Updated: 2014-02-18
Packaged: 2018-01-12 22:09:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1202368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandoz_Iscariot17/pseuds/Sandoz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sex is a pleasant diversion from the storm. Written for Porn Battle XV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Dream Without Rain

**Author's Note:**

> X-Men: First Class belongs to Marvel and Fox. Written for the prompts "rain," "hotel," and "dream" for Porn Battle XV.

Rain sprayed from the night sky, hard and punishing as bullets. Charles stumbled into the motel room first, a soggy newspaper held over his head as a feeble protection from the deluge. Erik was a few strides behind him; silhouetted in the doorframe, the storm at his back, he looked for a moment like a vengeful shadow. Then he slammed the door behind him and the illusion vanished.

“My god, what a nightmare,” Charles complained, dropping the newspaper in the wastebasket and loosening his tie. “I’m going to draw a bath.”

Erik said nothing as Charles drifted into the bathroom. He shouldered off his wet jacket and draped it over a chair to dry, ignoring the chill that slithered like fingers down his spine. It was a cold, miserable October, and Erik was suddenly filled with loathing. He hated the drab American motel room, with its beige walls and cracked ashtrays; he hated the wet clothing sticking to his skin; and above all he hated the staccato rhythm of the rain against the windows. He shed his shirt quickly, wanting nothing more than to sleep.

“Oooh!” came Charles’s voice in the bathroom—a full body shiver. 

Erik waited to hear Charles turning on the faucet for his bath, his hand hovering above his belt buckle, but heard nothing. He jerked the belt free, turning towards the mirror above the bureau—and caught a sight that froze him.

The mirror faced the bathroom; the door had been left open, and Charles stood naked under the fluorescent light. Erik could only see his back—dark hair, pale neck and shoulders—but then Charles bent at the waist to rifle through his damp, discarded clothing, presenting himself like a creature in heat. Erik smirked, and did not avert his eyes. Charles had an ass to kill for--and Erik knew, of course, what was worth killing for.

“Erik?” Charles asked. Erik continued to watch Charles’s reflection. “Are you still awake?”

“Yes.” Erik freed himself from his trousers. “I’m awake.”

“Good,” Charles replied, and Erik could just feel the smug pleasure radiating off him. “Come here, please?”

“Giving orders now, are we?” Erik replied with a sarcastic lilt to his mouth, in the tone reserved for Charles’s most posh affectations.

The small blue bathroom was inviting as an ice cave, but Charles could radiate warmth in any surroundings. Locking eyes with Erik, he lifted himself onto the bathroom counter. He flicked a damp lock of hair from his eyes and drops of rain splattered against the mirror behind him.

“What’s gotten into you?” Erik could have asked, but didn’t. They’d barely touched all day, but suddenly Charles was needful and teasing, spreading his knees already when Erik hadn’t even kissed him. Erik breached the distance between their bodies, caressing Charles’s face—there were dark half-moons under his eyes, had Charles been sleeping poorly?—and Charles covered Erik’s hand with his own, moving it down his neck and over his chest.

“I need you,” Charles said, and before he could take another breath Erik crashed their mouths together. In the mirror it looked for a moment that the two male bodies had fused into one being, before Erik moved again; slipping his hand down Charles’s back, he traced circles at the base of his spine, the center of his body.

Charles reached for Erik’s cock, murmuring appreciatively as it flushed and swelled in his grip. Erik drew in a sharp breath. He didn’t touch Charles’s prick (he wanted to slow this down, make it last) but snaked his hand between their bodies, cupping Charles’s balls. His fingers slid lower to tease his hole, and Erik was surprised to find it slick with lubrication. Only then did he spot the open jar on the counter beside the toothpaste and shaving cream, and he realized that Charles had already been preparing himself while he was undressing. 

(Hell and damnation, Charles was insatiable. He was, as he had promised their first night together, in the back of a black sedan, the best Erik had ever had. In some dark alcove of his mind Erik already knew that no matter where the future took him, separated from this night by decades and thousands of miles, no matter who he was with, it would never be as good as it was with Charles.)

Reading the thoughts passing across Erik’s face, Charles smiled and took his face between his two hands, holding him there. They were both panting now, the blood hot in their veins. More heated fumbling and grasping followed, until they were at that perfect, hotly desired position: Charles bracing himself on the countertop, Erik leaning forward, body bracketed by Charles’s legs, the base of his cock in hand. The warm, blunt cockhead brushed against Charles’s hole, but went no further, teasing him until finally Charles let out a long, ragged moan, and Erik pushed inside.

Their bodies rocked together in a familiar, well-practiced rhythm. After one particularly hard, fast thrust Charles flung his hand back in ecstasy, accidentally slamming against the mirror and sending a ripple down their reflection. Erik looked straight ahead at his mirror-self, watching himself fuck Charles, and knew—he felt that unmistakable glow in the back of his mind—that Charles was watching _him_ as he watched their fucking reflections.

(“We’re, in all probability, the first pair of male mutants to ever have sexual intercourse,” Charles had explained one night, his cheek resting on Erik’s sharp hipbone. “Isn’t that marvelous?”)

Charles’s eyes burned bright. Tiny, almost molecular raindrops clung to his eyelashes; Erik wanted to lick them away. 

“Kiss me,” Erik ordered, his voice low and rough, and Charles obeyed, pressing his mouth against his, welcoming his tongue. 

The pace quickened, and they rushed towards the end— _closer, closer, closer_ —until Erik felt his orgasm being pulled from his body and into Charles, their minds linked together at the moment of absolute pleasure. Sharing an orgasm with a telepath was like an out of body experience, a high no drug could give you. Every atom in his mind was spinning out of control. 

Then Erik came crashing down, as he knew he must, and he pulled his mind out of Charles’s, though he waited a few blessed moments more before pulling out his cock. The universe realigned itself.

Charles sighed and drew the back of his hand over his forehead, as though measuring his temperature. He looked pliant and vulnerable and fully shagged-out, his prick softening, and Erik admired the white smears on his inner thighs.

Erik remained where he was and regained control over his pounding heart. He realized, indifferently, that he was standing on Charles’s crumpled Oxford shirt. He wondered if he should say something to Charles, or kiss him again, or even walk out of the bathroom (he was a fantastic fuck, but hopelessly unsentimental in the afterglow) but then Charles sank forward, resting his forehead against Erik’s chest.

“Do you hear that?” Charles asked after a long silence. Erik thought he meant the beating of his heart, until he corrected him. “The rain. It’s still coming down.”

Only then Erik heard it: the rain and wind lashing at the windows. It had never let up. Erik and Charles’s tryst had only been a warm distraction while the storm raged around them.

His lips curled into a smile. He touched Charles’s hair. “I hate the rain.”

***

Hours later, Erik slept, but Charles did not. He sat on the edge of the bed, naked in the dark, and thought about lighting a cigarette, but reconsidered. The smoke would disturb Erik. Charles knew he wouldn’t be getting much sleep that night, but there was no reason why Erik shouldn’t.

It was an immense act of trust to fall asleep next to a telepath, more immense than Erik fully knew. Two powerful minds, asleep and unguarded…how easily one person’s dream could drift across space and time, into another person’s sleeping thoughts.

Erik dreamt of a cold, steel-gray day, rain streaming down his mother’s face. It wasn’t the worst memory locked away in Erik’s mental vault, absolutely not, but even the good memories, like his father’s strong hands or an uncle’s voice, were heavy with unimaginable grief.

So Charles had woken up far after midnight, as he usually did when Erik’s warm body was beside him, feeling strangely like a cuckoo bird in a nest. Sometimes sex helped plunge him into a deep sleep that a stranger’s memories couldn’t drag him out of, but not always. (He would never tell Erik about seeing his dreams, just as he had never told Raven. It was completely involuntary and uncontrollable, but he knew they would never forgive him—they were alike, that way—and would never again trust him completely.)

 _“I hate the rain,”_ Erik had said.

Charles brushed his fingertips gently across Erik’s temple. He concentrated. The gray dream dissipated, and in its place Charles gave Erik back a forgotten day in Vienna in 1959—a blue and gold afternoon with the music of a zither in the air.

The wind rattled outside. Charles pulled his knees up to his chest and closed his eyes, while next to him Erik slept and dreamed of a day without rain.


End file.
